


The More Loving One

by Anonymous



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:19:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4461575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love sucks, and then you die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More Loving One

**Author's Note:**

> This is for you. Fuck you. 
> 
> Prolly massively, heavily OOC, but I needed this footlong ramble out of me. Emotional vomit, gross content.

_How should we like it were stars to burn_  
With a passion for us we could not return?  
If equal affection cannot be,  
Let the more loving one be me.  
                                       —The More Loving One, W. H. Auden  
  


She is easy to love.

Almost painfully so. You are totally convinced she's yours, exclusively, solely. The way the sheets twist about her bare waist, her voice like a stress fracture, and her eyes soft and open. She's silver-drenched in moonlight, basking in it till her hair's got a colour of its own. She is sweet in your mouth, and her fingers are gripping tightly with no intent of letting go.

Her jaw is sharp and angular against the cushion of your lips (and you've learnt long ago that she makes these soft sighs that are so gentle to your ears).

Her laughter carries, and you try to talk her out of these crazy theories she's so prone to having, but mostly, you're laughing as well. Burrowed in a corner of the library, her arms over yours, supplying warmth and mouthfuls of hair as the both of you share this large bean bag. Then she shamelessly shifts, into the cradle of your arms, and she fits so perfectly that you're baffled yourself.  

She is short, almost as short as her attention span, and you lord your height over her to your advantage, but then she is on her tip-toes kissing you and you think that she is of perfect height. Her hair may be dry, coarse even, as she is often disinclined to wash it. And yet, you love the texture of it as you toy with the strands, tucking errant curls behind ears, parting her hair with so much affection coiled in every bit of you that you are stiff and locked.

And her trimmed nails — dragging down the side of your face, skimming about your temple, and her eyes. _Dear lord_. So earnest, so soft, so tender, with her eyelashes trembling in the draft, and so full of gentle words that would mean the world to you.

But you're certain she looks at others the same way, in the same particular degree of want and affection, that you wish you were blind some days. And her hand, her fingers slightly curled in at the loose hold of your elbow, your ribs, hurts as if she had hit you instead.

There is such a bone-deep, pitiful yanking at your insides.

And sometimes you forget: how she smells, how her shadow moves over the strip of carpet between the bathroom and her bed, how she takes you by your face. And sometimes her face is a vague memory, a fortunate alignment of features, to you. A pretty face lost in the crowd.

"I'm not fair to you," she admits, once, blowing soft breaths.

The fan oscillates lazily, and all previous heat of the day has dissipated into sticky humidity. She picks at a loose thread on a pillowcase, doesn't look at you. You're half tempted to seize her chin and force her to, but you don't.

"Why do you say that?"

She sighs. "You don't deserve this."

It's probably true, but you would always want her. And wasn't that all that mattered to you?

The twinge your heart gives disagrees, though it's easier to ignore with her breathing presence next to you. So closely by and so warm.

So you say, "I just want you."

She gives a small smile at that. "That's it?"

"That's it."

You wish it were enough.

She is too easy to love, and she too readily gives away parts of herself that you wish she would be a little more selfish (oh the irony), a little bit more cautious with.

It's easier to say that she feels bad, and on better days she's willing to admit it: "I'm rotten to the core."

But on worse days she says: "I really like you."

And then there are days when she falls in between, lying with her back pressed into you, the rough material of her sweater grating on the skin of your thighs, and says nothing more than a "hi", or a "i really missed you". And you reciprocate grumblingly.

She tells you about her day — the instances in which she comes home fuming and pulling clothes off her with so much force she's ripped her stockings and perhaps a seam or so, are numerous. And in those instances you let her do as she pleases, but you usually go with the usual set-up just in case: a large bowl of microwaved popcorn, and _Grease_ or _The Notebook_ on your laptop (you _always_ have either of the two in your hard drive). And when you welcome her into you, you're always tempted to ask if she goes to anyone else seeking comfort, if she complains about her boss to anyone but you, if the first thought to cross her mind when a colleague crosses her the wrong way is you, waiting faithfully at home, like some dumb dog that got rescued from a dump.

On her birthday, you sit alone at the kitchen counter with a poorly-made cake, and you fall asleep waiting, and wake up to cold marble and a text with so many spelling and grammatical errors you can only conclude that she's drunk.

And yet. Yet — when she calls you drunk and half-sobbing, half-throwing up, you pry the address of the place from her with the promise of a guacamole and carrots and go to pick her up in your pajamas and mismatched flip-flops.

There's a trace of cologne on her, and you see the beginnings of a rash at her jaw and its underside that resembles some kind of friction from a stubble, or a beard. Sometimes it's a woman, even. On those nights you coax her into the shotgun seat and she asks you bluntly why your eyes are so sad.

"I'm not," you reply.

"You are," she insists, leaning her head against the seat and blinking blearily at you.

You turn on the radio so she'd abandon the conversation, maybe be distracted by Mariah Carey (you _know_ , unlike those hook-ups, _you know_ what she likes and doesn't like and you _stay_ when everyone else leaves; so why did she not choose you?). Yellow light flashes on the side of her face, her lips glossy and pink, her eyes blown-out and dark.

When you hear soft snores, you sigh, and glance over at every red light. Sleep has softened her features, and she looks child-like, tempting you to reach over and fold her into you.

Although, there is a simmering resentment underneath, when you think: _fuck you._ When her eyes aren't open and looking at you so fondly and guiltily. Only then are you brave enough to blame her. When you tuck her into bed, you turn the other way and refuse to look at her, shift away so you can't feel her fevered skin, because you believe the sight (and thought) of her sickens you at the moment, and you can't bear to look at her without having to run.

But in the morning after, she's awake before you are, nursing a nasty hangover, and yet still perched over the stove, making breakfast, in a long loose shirt that goes to her thighs, hair messily pulled back in a ponytail. She dances around the kitchen to avoid the strong sunlight, and there is coffee ready for you and scrambled eggs and pancakes that, as you find her in the kitchen, all is forgiven. Instantly.

She looks at you apologetically once, then is determined to avoid unnecessary eye-contact — which falls exponentially in frequency when she spots the cold cake in the fridge as she grabs the juice. She doesn't mention it (apologies would have to mean admitting to her mistakes in the first place), and doesn't even sit with you at the breakfast table, opting to fret over the mountain of pancakes she seems to be making.

Her hair is excessively brown in the light, and you can see split ends and tangles.

"I'll get you your guacamole and carrots," you say, when the silence becomes too much.

She appears confused. "Sorry?"

"Guacamole and carrots. I promised to get some for you last night," you sip at your coffee.

"Oh."

"And how much pancakes are you making, exactly?" you inquire, extending the first olive branch in the form of a teasing grin, because despite all, she is here, with you, wearing your shirt, having breakfast with you (the alternative scares you to hell and back).

She flips some pancakes over in the pan and shrugs, smiling tentatively. "As many as it takes."

"Until?"

"Until you grab me from behind."

Her smile turns a tad wicked, and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

You dab at your mouth, and do exactly just that, kissing her down the column of her neck.

Later, having piggy-backed her to the couch, you ask: "What are you doing today?"

Leaves have withered and fallen outside, and it's all orange and brown on the sidewalks. You recall that she looks beautiful with a fallen leaf in her hair.

She looks at you meaningfully, lips pursing. She knows what you mean to ask, _are you seeing anyone today?_

"I'll let you decide," she says, and presses her face into your shoulder.

"Oh?"

She laughs and confirms it, and your hand glides along the tiny scabs forming at her jaw, from last night.

You throw out the cake. Smash it into the trashcan. Give it a nice kick back into the wall. Rest assured she never sees it again.

You've been told to stop your martyr act before, but the last person whose told you that ended up with bits of glass in his cheek, and a bloody gash at his hairline. You walked away with a bruised and bloodied knuckle, which she demands to know how it happened, but you refuse to meet her eyes, all the while thinking of how her eyes move beneath her eyelids as she sleeps.

On your birthday, you nose her hair, a simple, unspoken request that she takes into her stride, and lets her hold you, till her arm falls asleep and you just have to laugh at how her face twists every time she sets down her arm. She kisses you on your temple when you're in the kitchen (you laugh when she tells you to wait and comes back with a stool to stand on), awake at three in the morning, and the light from the fridge lovely on her toes as she brings out the cans of beer. Then she hands you a concert ticket with your name scrawled affectionately (or sarcastic?) on the back and you believe the smile she gives —all teeth and thinly-pressed lips — sincere. Then she laughs, and you are flooded with this fondness that comes with a heaviness that you scarcely afford anymore.

She doesn't get shit-faced drunk; maybe just a little tipsy as she cuddles up into your side, and talks in high, animated tones. You enjoy the smell of her hair, the tenderness of her waist against your hand, the warmth of her small body. How she laughs and discusses cartoons with you, and you can't help but to think if she ever does this with any other. 

"Happy birthday," she murmurs against your skin, drowsy and heavy-lidded.

When you say it back, she chuckles. Sweet, right and merciful, as she lays next to you, ankles brushing, and you dare to think: _this is worth it._

You laugh, partially exasperated when she pauses to pet the neighbour's cat on nearly any and every occasion it comes by, and it seems to bask in her company as well, mewling and butting its head against her leg. Her voice is horribly high-pitched and off when she returns (mimics, really) the mewl, and your fingers and toes curl at it.

She scratches at its spotted fur and you watch, contented. The human body has a certain habit of numbing the pain if it gets too great.

Then she laces her fingers through yours and leads you away.

The next time you're forced to pick her up again, she has sobered up, and is puking onto the streets and your shoes.

"Are we not going to talk about this?" you say, tightly.

"You don't have to pick me up," she mumbles, her fingers splayed at her forehead.

"Is that even — are you serious? You're going to _walk_ home?"

"I'd have called a cab, or someone."

"And who would that someone be, if not me?" you snap.

Finally, she looks over at you, at the sharp focus of your eyes on the road, at the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, at the rigidness of your posture and the way you seem to be measuring your breaths.

"Are you _jealous_?"

If it were said in any other way, maybe you could have forgiven it (no, you _know_ you would have). But she sputtered it, as if she were incredulous, as if it was not reasonable _at all_ that someone you love is going out fucking god-knows-who and then you have to pick up what's left. As if she didn't already know.

You stop the car in the middle of the deserted road, and she looks at you, not saying anything, her hand on the door handle as if she expects to be thrown out.

But you only breathe deeply, then you grab a handful of mints, and toss it at her, scattering it everywhere, snarling, "You smell like shit."

She is silent for a long while, watching you blink back tears and press the pads of your fingers into your eyelids. Then, finally, she quietly asks, "Do you want me to leave?"

You laugh wetly, but that spurs more tears, and you choke, turning away.

"I can go," she volunteers again, and her voice sounds broken and you think it completely unfair. She doesn't deserve to use that tone on you; you're the hurting party.

You swipe impatiently at your tears, and if she sees some stray tears trail down your face before you dry them, she doesn't mention. You drive ahead, because you really, _really_ can't and don't want to talk right now.

When you park the car, she waits for you to say something.

"When I said that I just want you, I meant it," you start.

"And now you're not so sure," she continues, softly.

"I'm really sick of this."

She says nothing to defend herself.

"I really, _really_ love you," you say, and then because you can't help it, you laugh at how pitiful you sound. The laugh comes out a bark and she flinches. "And now, I really want to hurt you."

 _as you have hurt me_. You didn't say it, but it's clear as day.

"But you probably don't care," you continue. "You've never cared."

"That's not true," she insists hoarsely.

"You know what, I really can't stand to look at you right now."

And you kill the engine and toss the keys onto her laps, climbing out of the car and into the apartment in record time, not caring if she follows or not.

You fall immediately into bed, and you're not sure if she did follow, because eventually you succumb into deep, dreamless sleep.

You wake up to an empty apartment, and something in you falls. The disappointment sits heavily in your gut, and there is no other way to not be indulgent in this pain because it is everywhere, and it is pulsing like a fresh wound. It is all you can seem to think about.

Her things are still intact, but she's nowhere to be seen and the car isn't in the driveway. There are no missed calls, or texts, or voicemails in your inbox and maybe you worry a little.

But you refuse to be the one to call her first. To beg her to come back. To fret and worry. That's all you ever seem to do nowadays. And you swear to god you're so sick of it.

You skip breakfast for a fast cup of coffee, shower, and go to work (by bus, of course), falling asleep immediately the moment you get home. Routine.

She isn't there when you come back either.

But she's there the next morning you wake up. Looking small and sorry, sitting at the edge of the bed as you sleep, as if she feels she doesn't deserve to sleep next to you anymore.

She's wearing new clothes that are a bit too big for her, must've been her friend's. Or whoever. It doesn't matter. You don't care.

"Hi," she croaks, and she looks no better than you feel.

You roll over in bed to look at her. "Hi," you return.

She simply stares at anywhere else but you, but you know, dear god, you _know_ that apologies don't come easy to her, and you murmur, your arms opening wide, "C'mere."

And her face is immensely relieved as she crawls over and burrows herself into you, and it _is_ a shame, how she fits so snugly.

"I'll try harder," she says, and you feel the heat of her tears at your neck.

You nod, and again, she is forgiven. Your hands pat down her back, feeling the notches of her spine, as she cries.

She is too easy to love. It's a damn shame that you love so her fucking much.

**Author's Note:**

> Nope, I still want you. Come back. It still can't be me, can it?


End file.
